When I was 8, my dad told me, “Never leave Mom alone,” kissed my head, and left. That night, he didn’t come home—ever. Mom gave vague answers, and I grew up thinking he abandoned us. We struggled financially, moving to a smaller apartment, while I made ramen and walked home alone. I kept looking for him in every tall man in a denim jacket, but he was gone.
At 29, Mom’s heart scare led to a confession: she cheated, and Dad left because of it, not me. He stayed nearby for a year, watching me from afar until Mom told him to stop. Reeling, I tracked him to Crescent City. At his cabin, I found him—greyer, but with unmistakable eyes. He’d written me letters he never sent, full of love and regret. We reconnected over soup, tears, and time. Slowly, we rebuilt—calls, visits, even an awkward meeting with Mom. He taught woodworking to my fiancé, Kavi, and walked me down the aisle at our wedding. Mom and I forgave each other’s silences. Truth hurts, but hiding it can hurt more. If someone disappears, don’t assume the worst—sometimes, it’s just complicated.
